Possibility
by Destined for Johnlock
Summary: John trudges on after Sherlock's 'suicide.' One-shot set to the song Possibility by Lykke Li. Disclaimer: all characters belong to yada yada we all know at this point that it's not me.


John Watson never really had an ordinary life. He was a solider, and a damn good one at that; an accomplished army doctor. His childhood was a bit strange, though he managed through it, enlisting as soon as he could and getting through university and medical school with excellent academic achievements. He had seen action and combat first-hand, watched men die and tried to save them right on the battlefield. He had endured what he believed to be the worst possible kind of torture, watching your men die in front of you.

Then he met Sherlock Holmes. An odd man, to say the least. Arrogant, certainly. But charming in his own way, with his unusual mannerisms and keen interest in all things dealing with chemicals or the dead. 'Knowledgeable beyond compare' (on subjects that didn't clutter up his mind palace, anyway) and 'impossible' are acceptable ways to describe Sherlock. He read John like a book upon first meeting and never really stopped.

Until he did.

Until he stopped doing everything altogether.

Until one day, John watched him fall. And John ran to him. And John didn't find a pulse.

And John looked into those cold, lifeless eyes.

Only then did the extraordinary Sherlock Holmes stop.

John's life, for the first time ever, was ordinary. He came home to the flat, Sherlock's equipment still out on the table, his skull in its place on the mantle, and prepared two cups of tea. Always two, just in case.

When Sherlock died, John was left without excitement in his life. Gone were the days of chasing criminals, running after that billowing coat through the streets of London, jumping from rooftop to rooftop with more ease each time. Nights spent listening to a violin performance from the comfort of his chair were over. There were no more dangerous and/or disgusting experiments to be conducted in the kitchen.

Sherlock Holmes, his life, and his influence were done.

John Watson, as far as his zeal for excitement went, was done.

Sherlock had taken that away from him. Not only had he stripped away the very core of John's heart, but he had taken with him John's ambition, John's will, John's reason for living. In that dreadful moment of the fall, he had stolen it from right under John's feet and John was helpless, watching, breaking.

John, however, would live on.

He would convince everyone he was fine. He would go out to the pub with Greg months after the incident, but never help with cases. Oh no, he "only saw, but did not observe. Not nearly well enough to be of any help." He would treat Mrs. Hudson to dinner, visit her downstairs, prepare her tea, and watch crap telly with her. He would go into work, do his job, and attend the office holiday parties. And in all of these, he would enjoy himself.

Or at least that's what he would lead people to believe.

John would and will continue to smile when asked about his day. He'll tell you what he had planned, what he did that morning, but it would all be half-truths. He had coffee and read the paper, yes. But he also stared at Sherlock's chair for an hour before moving. He did run into Sarah the other day, but he also thought he caught the sight of Sherlock's coat from the corner of his eye, like he always did. He was going to grab takeout for dinner, but he would get Sherlock's usual order as well and scoff at the empty flat when the food was untouched, like it used to be.

And these people would politely smile back, nod, and go about their day. They may not have known all of that, but they _knew_. They knew John was lonely, knew that deep down, he needed Sherlock to give him the thrill in his life that everything else would be lacking in.

So there's a possibility that John Watson's life would forever be dull. There's a possibility that those in his life would confront him about it one day and he would crumble before them, finally let them into his heart, his head, and let them give him the comfort they could. But the possibility was slim.

The only possibility John believed in, though, was Sherlock. And he would tell him. Every day, six pm on the dot, with his hands pocketed and his head held high, with the strength and respect of the soldier he was.

"_One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be… dead."_


End file.
